


table for three

by wildewoman_22



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Multi, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9782360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewoman_22/pseuds/wildewoman_22
Summary: “Don’t tell me you forgot,” Stan said, shaking his head in disbelief. He winced, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he knew he shouldn’t be finding this funny. “She’s gonna kill you, you know.”Peggy had made the reservation about a month ago, claiming that she wanted to do something nicer than ‘eating takeout on the goddamn floor’ for once. And now he’d totally forgotten what day it was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is very mindless fluffy fluff. Pretty inconsequential.

Ginsberg tapped his boots against the side of Peggy’s stoop, shaking off the excess snow as he buzzed up to the apartment she shared with Stan. Although it wasn’t entirely accurate to say that she shared it with _only_ him now – Ginsberg was still paying rent at his place four blocks over, but he was hardly ever there anymore.

 

“Come on up.” Stan’s voice was muffled through the old, shitty intercom. Ginsberg shivered a little as he entered the lobby – it was freezing out, and he’d left his hat at Morris’s. He’d gone over there after work for his weekly visit; more of a preventative measure than anything else - to keep the old man from calling him all the damn time, especially after he’d called Ginsberg at work three times in one week and had said, “I just like hearing from you! Is that a crime?” Ginsberg had sighed, feeling like the world’s biggest jerk.

 

He didn’t want his father to get lonely.

 

The apartment door creaked loudly as he swung it open, hanging his coat on the hook.

 

“It’s me!” he called out, bending down to scratch Peggy’s fat old cat behind the ears. The bedroom door was open a sliver, and he could hear shuffling and the clack of Peggy’s makeup rolling around on her vanity. Stan appeared from the bathroom, his hair neatly combed, wearing a shirt so white and stiff that you’d swear it was rented, blue silk tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looked fantastic, and Ginsberg couldn’t help but stare at him for a few seconds before-

 

Oh, shit. Shit, shit. _Of course_.

 

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Stan said, shaking his head in disbelief. He winced, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he knew he shouldn’t be finding this funny. “She’s gonna kill you, you know.”

 

Peggy had made the reservation about a month ago, claiming that she wanted to do something nicer than ‘ _eating takeout on the goddamn floor_ ’ for once. And now he’d totally forgotten what day it was.

 

“You forgot?” Peggy emerged from the bedroom with a scowl on her face, brandishing her lipstick like a weapon. “Seriously? I reminded you yesterday!” she exclaimed.

 

“Sorry!” he replied, holding up his hands in surrender. Peggy’s eyebrows were pinched together so tight he wondered if it was hurting her.

 

“I can’t believe this,” she sighed in a frustrated way, looking at her watch. “We still have some time. Lucky for you.” She punctuated this last bit with the lipstick threateningly before returning to the bedroom, a clear warning that he’d better get moving.

 

“How fast can you get ready?” Stan asked, not looking up from where he was fiddling with his tie. Ginsberg mentally rifled through the apartment. He was pretty sure one of his nicer work shirts was hanging in the closet, thank God… pants, pants - shit. They were at his place. He’d have to wear what he had on; they were grey slacks, fairly inoffensive as far as he could see. He could borrow one of Stan’s ties. How dressy was a person supposed to get for this sort of place?

 

“Give me a few minutes,” Ginsberg replied.

 

He went into the bedroom, where Peggy was spritzing herself with perfume. Her dress was pale green and sort of shiny, clinging lightly to the curves of her body. He watched as she picked at her curled hair, fluffing it with her fingers; he couldn’t stop staring at how she pursed her lips while she critiqued her handiwork. Did she know how cute she was? It really drove him crazy sometimes, how she could be such a stubborn pain in the ass but then so _soft_ all at once. Peggy caught his gaze in the mirror and bit her lip, a knowing look on her face.

 

“You know, you really look great,” he said innocently, stepping behind her and kissing her bare shoulder. She laughed gently, turning around and fixing him with a faux-stern glare. Her eyes were bright and playful as she narrowed them at him.

 

“Nobody likes a kiss-ass,” she replied, pressing her lips to his. She patted his chest as she pulled away, all businesslike. “Now get dressed. Get Stan to do your tie,” she said brusquely before slipping out to the bathroom. She’d laid Stan’s black tie and the shirt he’d wanted out on the bed for him, and he stood there for a second, grinning like an idiot.

 

It was the little things like that that still got to him; things like Stan leaving out a plate of leftovers for him when he worked late, or Peggy bringing him coffee in the mornings before he could ask for it. This whole… arrangement was only a few months old, but Ginsberg felt so stupidly happy and full about it sometimes that he was sure other people could feel it, too; how could they not with the way his heart would beat right out of his chest, practically falling into his hands. He could hardly believe that they still wanted him in their lives - and in their _bed_ \- as badly as he’d always wanted them. That sort of stuff never happened in real life.

 

Peggy and Stan were sitting on the couch watching an _I Love Lucy_ rerun when Ginsberg came out a minute later; his palm was splayed on the green satin of her knee. Stan crooked a finger toward Ginsberg, taking the tie from him as he stood. “Come here,” he said.

 

Stan began to loop the tie around his neck, his fingers straightening out the collar of his shirt. Ginsberg was eyeing Stan’s hands; they were solid and clumsy-looking, but most people never noticed how nimble they were - years of sketching and painting had made them refined and damn near _graceful._ “Lift your chin up,” Stan said as he tightened the knot. Stan’s fingers were warm, brushing against the exposed skin of his neck; his eyes kept flicking up to Ginsberg’s, sending a spark of heat tripping along his spine.

 

He’d never seen Stan dressed up like this before, and he wondered if this place would have candles. Probably. He wondered if Stan’s eyes would still look the same shade of blue in the dim glow of candlelight, if Peggy’s skin would still be the same creamy white. It was hitting him then, the fact that this was a date, an actual, official _date._ At an Italian restaurant that probably had embroidered cloth napkins and bottles of wine that cost as much as his rent. They hadn't done anything like this yet. Ginsberg curled his hands into fists, nails digging deep into his palms as a wave of anxiety rolled through him, a sick, uneasy feeling. Who the fuck had a romantic dinner for three in public?

 

“I can hear you thinking,” said Stan.

 

“It’s just – won’t this look... weird?”

 

Stan’s hands stilled on Ginsberg’s collar, his expression growing serious. “I thought we were over this,” he said quietly, after a long pause. Peggy wasn’t paying any attention to the TV; she was watching the two of them intently, a tiny frown creeping across her face.

 

Ginsberg swallowed. Whenever they all went anywhere together, he was careful not to draw too much attention to himself or touch them too much or let his eyes linger too long. It was worse in the beginning, but he couldn’t shake himself out of it completely. It’d be so obvious what people would think, he could see it now - the nice, mature professionals and their weird charity case who had no goddamn idea how to behave in a fancy restaurant. A freak. Making the three of them something bizarre.

 

“This is shit _couples_ do,” Ginsberg said in a gruff voice, looking away.

 

They'd had this fight before - well, a variation of it. Peggy had accused him of having a _'bullshit martyr complex'_ because he always avoided the topic of his officially moving in someday. He'd eventually told her the truth - that he was pretty sure Morris would somehow find out about them, and he was nowhere close to ready to contemplate _that_ particular scenario. Ginsberg knew theirs wasn't exactly a setup most people could get behind. What if Peggy and Stan eventually decided that it would be too complicated, too much of a hassle to deal with being together in public? They could, and he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t blame them.

 

“There's no difference, you know that,” Peggy murmured. He glanced over at her. She looked awfully sympathetic.

 

“Yes and no,” said Stan. He was cupping the sides of Michael’s neck, his thumb rubbing along his hairline. Ginsberg leaned into his touch. “This is shit people do with people they want to be with,” Stan said in a tone that meant this should have been obvious.

 

“It’s just a dinner. Who cares? We’ll have a good time. Promise.” Peggy stood and came over to them, running a hand down Michael’s arm. She was so nonchalant about the whole idea that he had no choice but to relax a little. Maybe they didn’t think about this as much as he did – but that was usually the case. Of course he could be trusted to freak out. Ginsberg let out a deep breath.

 

“You’re right,” he said.

 

“Listen, the only thing worth worrying about is Peggy being a handsy drunk,” Stan drawled.

 

Peggy scoffed. “You wish,” she retorted, checking her watch again. “We should really get going. You okay?” she asked Ginsberg.

 

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

The candlelight was better than he’d imagined. Pretty romantic, even though he thought it cheesy to think so. He liked when they went to their usual greasy diner down the street but this was just as good, to sit at this little round table with violins playing in the corner, just the three of them; Stan’s foot pressed against his beneath the table, Peggy's cheeks pink and radiant above the rim of her wine glass.

 

They were nearly finished the bottle when Stan leaned over to him and whispered in that dirty, low tone he’d become quite familiar with: “You know, I think seeing you all swanky like this is really working for her.”

 

He felt himself flush; Peggy had her hand curled tenderly around his wrist. She caught Stan’s eye and winked.

 

Ginsberg cleared his throat.

 

“We should get the check,” he said.

 

 

 

 


End file.
